Scarlett, our doe, tiptoed through the grass, fodder hanging out of the side of her mouth. Her long neck came up slowly, chewing, and her ears twitched. Those big almond-shaped eyes met mine. I could’ve sworn she stuck out her pink tongue at me in greeting.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Scarlett
The house seemed to echo a pulse. That was how alive it became with the number of bodies within her walls. Guido and Nino were still fixtures, but so were Violet and her five. We were down one—Mitch—but had gained six more.
After Mick neglected to call Violet’s parents or us, she didn’t trust him any longer to make decisions when she couldn’t. Violet felt it wasn’t Mick who had made the decision. It was his mother. That had scared her most of all. She ranted and raved that if she had wanted Sybil Lewis to make medical decisions for her, she would have married her and not Mick.
Therefore, she packed up the children and left—she needed distance from him, she had said. With two new babies that needed around-the-clock care, she turned to us.
Mitch bowed out gracefully, moving into his house, which had been ready. It seemed he was giving her space from him as well. I knew what he had asked of her, and I couldn’t even fathom the weight on her shoulders, much less her heart.
Mick took off every two weeks for New York to run his business there. He stopped by to see the children while he was in town, but Violet refused to speak to him. And then she visited a lawyer about a living will.
She mailed out seven copies—two to him in New York, at their home and at his garage; one to their house in Natchitoches; and one to Sybil Lewis. The other three copies went to her parents, Mitch, and me.
In the meantime, the air had turned colder, and the twins were nearing a month old. I decided to host Thanksgiving at the house on Snow, declining the invitation to my parents’ house. This was a first for us, holidays on Snow, and warmth seemed to encase the house, protecting it from the humid cold that tried to sneak its bitter existence between us.
The day was full of food, friends, and family, and I almost cried when Brando cut the turkey. We had celebrated in all of our homes before, but nothing compared to the feeling of being in the house on Snow. I hadn’t had a drop to drink, yet I could’ve been walking on air.
That same air became tense when Mick walked in, facing Mitch for the first time since their altercation out on the porch. Mitch was crooning to Wendi, had been all evening, and the way he looked at Violet when she was with one of the kids made me almost jealous. Not of their relationship, but of the happiness I saw on her face when she interacted with one of her children. Mitch noticed it, too.
Mick was stone-faced, at first, but after Brando welcomed him, patting him on the shoulder, he seemed to relax. He took Levi and gave Violet a tender kiss on the cheek. He whispered something in her ear, and she gave a slight nod.
She moved back in with him a week later.
The house became quieter, but no less occupied. December came with bitter-cold vengeance, and Brando accused me of having more lights on the house than the entire Festival of Lights brightening downtown Natchitoches.
The Festival of Lights was a staple in our small town, like the Natchitoches meat pie. Each year, starting in November, the festival was held downtown along the bank of the Cane. It was filled with lights that danced on the water, live music, food vendors, and arts and crafts, followed by parades and fireworks choreographed to holiday music over the river.
Brando and I had made a promise to each other while we were dating, before I left for Paris, that we’d go the first Saturday of every December as a tradition. This year, though, I was asked to give a speech at the statue the town had put up in my honor.
My initial reaction was to say no and bow out politely—public gatherings made me nervous. But the town had been so gracious, and it was filled with such wonderful people, that I couldn’t force the words from my mouth. Though even thinking about it broke me out in a cold sweat.
I pulled it off, though, and was glad that I was able to say a few words. Ettore had stopped me from coming home when the statue was first revealed—Brando thought it was too dangerous—so the occasion felt poignant to me. We were not out of the woods yet, but being home felt like a huge step in the right direction.
After the speech was over and most people had meandered to the festival itself, Brando and I ran across the street to the ballet studio so I could change out of the dress I had worn. I wanted something more comfortable to enjoy the festivities. If I was being honest with myself, I wanted a pair of jeans and a sweater that would hide the pooch from the food I planned on eating.
Brando had reserved a tarp along the bank spacious enough for our friends and family to watch the fireworks, and all of them were waiting for us at the festival. Live music drifted through the streets. The air was perfumed with spruce and cinnamon, and a few other scents from the festival as undercurrents, the cold holding on to the warm scents like a lover.
Brando fixed the slouchy beanie hat I stuck over my hair to keep me warm, and then kissed me before leading me across the road. I kept close to his side, a portable heater wherever we went. Breath came out in clouds of steam, and so did the perfumed heat from all of the vendors serving up local dishes.
“What do you want first?” His eyes scanned the area for options.
I would’ve homed in on the bright blue clouds from across the universe. I could smell the sugar in the air—my fingers already felt sticky.
“Cotton candy.” Brando answered before I did, narrowing his eyes at the stand. The frown on his face made him look speculative.
I almost laughed. “You love cotton candy!”
He shook his head. “No, you love cotton candy. You make me get it so you won’t feel guilty about eating it. A bite here, a bite there, and the next thing you know, it’s all gone—and then you blame me for eating it all. I don’t even like it, Ballerina Girl. It’s nothing but fluff.”
I shrugged and dragged him along. I almost clapped when the man handed us the goods, making Brando grin. It was so soft and sticky, and as we walked up and down the riverbank, checking out other food vendors, I enjoyed the sweet melt of it on my tongue. The stickiness made my fingers feel colder. I grinned to myself when I realized there was only one bite left.
I peeled it off, offering it to Brando, since it washiscotton candy. He grinned and surprised me by eating it, but he kissed me right after.
“I thought you said you didn’t like the stuff,” I replied, almost in a daze. Our lips had stuck together. He licked his.
